Decay
by Shrimp Chip
Summary: Of Elvhenan, and the elf who witnessed its decay.
1. Chapter 1

My mother told me that when she was young, death was a myth. Even the consideration of never seeing the earth again was lost on our people. Now—now death is a very real reality. An epidemic, she called it. Only the oldest left in the beginning, but the definition of old keeps getting smaller, and smaller. The thread is even being shortened now. Every moment we spend with them, she says, is a moment less to breathe.

My mother hated them.

My mother was a priestess, and I remember we once lived in a temple. How long she was in service, she said she did not remember. Time was treated differently before they came, was what she told me, and even so, there was nothing important to mark the years. It could have been a decade, a century, or even a millennia; but there was nothing to tell her of time passing. Until they came at least. She said that was when everything changed.

She said she thought of them (or rather, you) as curious outsiders at first. She had even liked them a bit. The only other humans –that is the name you call yourself by, right?— she had ever heard of were from long before then, in an age where it was not just your insides that were rancid, but your outsides as well. Your people had attempted to move to the continent. Your ancestors were quickly evacuated—we never liked outsiders.

But these were different, more civilized if you will. They came to trade, and learn, and our people did ever so like to teach. She told me only once the story of a pretty boy who shyly offered her a pair of earrings, made of beaten gold. She appreciated the gift, and she enjoyed their conversations together. She thought he was charming, if not naïve and childish. She did not think much else of him until he died.

She was pregnant with myself at the time. He was still young looking—not as much as before, definitely, but enough so she didn't notice. He was coughing, and she was worried about her tall, shemlen friend. He became sicker, and sicker, until he finally took to bed, unable to stand. She said she was terrified. She had never seen anything like this, never seen someone's body turn on itself.

He died soon after I was born. His whole life but a blink to herself, she left the place as soon as she could carry me out. She'd never truly seen him die, but she had heard of it, and she said that the thought of it spent pangs into the very pits of her stomach. She refused to have something so pure tainted by something so dirty. (Did she mean me I wonder? Or herself?)

Even if one of the gods themselves came down, and told her that human's were as wonderful as she was, she would still refuse to acknowledge even the possibility. I'd be lying if I said she did not convince me of the same at one time.

She hid her, and my child self deeper into Elvhenan. I grew up in the shadow of large, towering mountains, and musty green forests. Pine needles coated the temple like snow, and the high priest would lift me up to the roof to brush them away, and requested I collect the pine cones for wreaths to hang inside. Things were slow, and patience came naturally. But even with my own vast reservoir of serenity, the adults lagging slowness could sometimes become maddening.

Whenever I complained, my mother would purse her lips and stare at me for a long time. Minutes, hours. If I did not leave, she would have probably stood there all day. She would not say anything at all, and I soon learned never to bother my mother. She was neither talkative, nor kind, but she loved me in a strange way, I assume. I cannot comprehend her, or put her into words, and even if I could, I doubt you would understand. If I cannot make sense of something, I am sure a shemlen could not either.

While my mother was distant, I did find a father (or perhaps a brother?) in my friend Marathin. He came from the great city, and brought with him new philosophy and contemplations for my underdeveloped mind. He was much younger then my own mother, and to us, he had barely made it into adulthood. To you, though, I suspect he was ancient. I wish you to remember that a century is the most we could ever expect from you, and he was a bit older than that. Even so, I was not even half his age.

I do not quite remember the exact moment I met him. We did not talk, for a great while. We nodded to each other if we passed in the halls; we sometimes sat together while eating. But one day we finally acknowledged one another's presence.

There is no doubt in my mind that he was the one who started it. I did not realize it at the time, but I was becoming a miniature version of my mother, and I recall not speaking a word for weeks at a time. It was the same for us as it is for you—priests, or people of religious meditation are not known for their chatty nature. There was not another child of the same age as me, and I was a bit of an enigma. I did not know how to react to someone who had not seen everything and knew everything. It was… strange, to say the least.

I think it was in late summer, or early Autumn. The leaves were limp on the trees, but they were still green, and feathery. I was crouched before one of the temples statues—a large bear, curled up within itself, pondering its secrets. My arms wrapped around my legs, and my chin was nestled between my sharp knees. I was the picture of a growing girl. Soon I would be even taller than my mother! But it would be a long while until I filled out my limbs.

"No matter how long you wait, he will not tell what he knows."

That was the longest thing he had ever said to me. His words shook me, for I had not heard him come. Marathin, was of course, jesting, but I allow you to assume humor was not a regular part of my day. I frowned at him, and said as serious as I could, "I do not expect him too, nor do I want him to." Marathin only laughed at my sober answer, and sat down beside me.

"And why would that be?" he asked, "Do you not like to hear secrets, Da'len?"

I replied to him with as much conviction as I could muster: "Secrets are meant to be kept in one's heart, not whispered into the ears of a curious child." He chuckled, and looked deep into the woods. The time lengthened as he sat in thought.

"I suppose they are." Was all he replied.

* * *

I might continue this. I kind of like this character. I based her partly off myself when I was a child, and partly off my imagination. There is more to this story. It's just a matter of my putting it down in words :D


	2. Chapter 2

Marathin stayed for a few months. He slept in the guest room most days, but sometimes he would wander into the woods, and we would not see him for days. What he did in there, I still do not know to this day, but I am sure I could make a few guesses: He liked to learn, and what interested him was as varied and diverse as the birds in the sky. The high priest doted on him, and the two would talk for long amounts of time, conversations spanning bridges I did not care to comprehend. They would talk about the outside world, a land I'd never properly heard of (only snippets from my mother, and none of them were all too comforting).

The only life I ever knew was here. I'd never left this forest, and I did not have an interest in the outside world just yet.

I did not know it, but I was becoming as dry and prickly as my own mother. Marathin would seek me out, and talk to me about whatever he thought would strike a chord. After days of practically one sided conversations, he found that I knew how to read. It was not a surprising fact I think. How could one sort archives if they cannot tell a letter from a number; how could one sit still when silence pounds in their ears with the force of a sledgehammer if they cannot waste time?

The next time he saw me, I received a gift in the form of a large tome, full of unearthly stories born of wild imaginations. I did not sleep until it was finished. Looking back, I think he did not realize I was interested in such fantasies, and it was one of the only books he cared enough about to carry around. Nevertheless, he kept me well supplied with outrageous stories in the form of personal experience, as well as the written word.

He was traveling the whole of the continent. He told me of the isolated peninsula to the east, and how he sat, frozen and blue in the icy snow for two days, waiting impatiently for the rest of the party to find him and take him away from the accursed mountains. He told me of how he'd befriended a wolf in the watery swamps of the south, and in turn, sat among a whole pack of the noble animals and made a fool of himself howling to the moon.

It was him who made me curious. At first I did not care for the places, so much as I cared for the excitement and diversity. But soon, the places did matter. I wanted to leave the woods, leave the high priest, leave the quick thinking animals, and leave the mountains. And, to even my own amazement, I wanted to leave my mother.

Even if my mother was not the most caring of women, she was still my beautiful, golden haired mamae. I think the word I am thinking of is worship—she was a godly presence in my life, and no one could over shadow her. But something had shifted, and suddenly I could picture a me without her—a me somewhere _else_ then here. It was a strange sensation and I was truly afraid.

There were so many things I could do, so many opportunities. But everything was so different, so alien! I would surely drown in such loud, large, and clamoring cities! It was easy to receive a scrap of attention here. I was the only child, and there were not many souls taking harbor in this religious refuge. I was unique if you will. But out there would be so many more interesting than I! How could I possibly compare?

But it had finally come. The day Marathin had planned to leave—leave the temple, leave the forest, and most importantly, leave me. I was practically heartbroken. How was I to learn of the outside world? Who was going to talk to me? Where, or when, would I ever hear a joke again? Is there anyone else that could possibly fill up my empty chasm in a conversation as easily as he could?

I was to no longer be satisfied with what I had. I knew it, and it hurt. But how could I possibly leave? Leave it all? Did I want to go now? And with Marathin? Would he even want to bring me? I would learn the answer soon enough.

I did not know of his departure until the very moment he had his pack slung over his shoulders. My mother and I were quietly grinding flowers and herbs, stuffing them into cone molds. Incense would be needed for tomorrow night's ceremony, and certain scents and plants were absolute. I heard the door slowly scrape against the granite floor, though I did not look up until I heard the voice.

"There you are my little friend—! Ah, and Aerlen, as well. I apologize, sister, I did not see you at first."

My mother graced him with a slight glance, and a small arch of the mouth (downwards, of course), but otherwise, his greeting might as well have fallen on deaf ears. My mother did not care about Marathin. But I did, and I was curious as to why all of his things were gathered—though there was not much to speak of, and his satchel was thin, I automatically knew that he had everything that he needed or wanted. It struck me as strange, and the true reason didn't even flutter through my mind.

"Marathin, why do you look like that?"

He quirked an eyebrow, before a spark of understanding raced across his face. "Ah. My things. I am leaving tonight, my friend. I am departing for my home—the great city of Arlathan!" a grin twitched into place, so eager was he to go back.

"You are leaving." I said. It was not a question. The tone was not right, nor my intentions behind the statement. He nodded slowly, and a silence passed between us.

"And you will not be coming back."

He mulled over what I had said. With a grim smile, he answered my thoughts: "That is true, Lethallin."

I paused, assessing this situation. He was leaving for sure, that much was certain. For all he joked and teased, Marathin's word was _truth_. I fancied myself joining him on adventures from time to time, but he was going home anyways. His own home, just like this place belonged to me. I was not sure if I was even old enough to leave, or for that matter, brave enough. Was I thinking of leaving? Without any planning? Would my mother even agree if I asked? There were so many reasons I would not inquire to him my probably unexpected request. What made me think he even wanted me along?

"So we will never see each other again."

He took a moment to himself, leaning against the door frame. His eyes were clouded, not really seeing anything. But then he snapped back towards reality, and his next words threw me off balance. "It is entirely up to you."

"Excuse me?"

He laughed, "Exactly what I said. It is up to you, Lethallin. You could come with me, or you could deny me. This is your choice. If you pass this chance, do you think you'll ever leave this place?"

Would I? It was a simple question, but so complicated to answer. I could, yes, if I wanted too. But I was thinking of all the reasons to turn down _this _chance, even when I had my own friendly guide to lead me by the hand. No, if I did not go now, I doubt I would gather the will to leave by myself. I was not a very brave child.

I probably would stay there for the rest of my life. Me, living in a temple dedicated to a solemn, and quiet god? If you had asked someone who knew me in the future to picture me spending the rest of my life in servitude, they would laugh at you to your face.

"I… I do not know." Was all I could say. My eyes strayed to figure of my mother, liquid gold hair falling into her face as she worked on the incense. My voice was tender and raw as I whispered to her, "Mamae…"

She looked towards me, and held my gaze firm. "It matters not to me, Da'len. Go, or do not go. Why are you looking at me like that? It is your life, not mine."

Marathin smiled in reassurance, "That it is, Lethallin."

I wasn't entirely sure what was happening. Mother did not care if I left or not? She might as well have slapped me across the face. I'm not sure what I was expecting. For her to cry and beg for me to not go, no, to not even think of going, all the while tearfully telling me how much she loved me? Bah. I was dreaming.

"You don't… care if I leave?"

She sighed, and gave me a long, hard look. "Go." She finalized, "Pack lightly, or you will regret it later."

* * *

lol, she's kinda whiny, isn't she? But aren't we all, in a way? At least she doesn't whine out loud. I hate people who do that. But yes, thank you everyone who read this. And thank you, Hawk. You don't even play Dragon Age, and you're still kind enough to comment and compliment. Sorry to anyone who finds mistakes, grammar wise, or history wise. Or just enjoyable wise.

Lots of love, Shrimp.


	3. Chapter 3

I only packed three things in my bag. There was a spare change of clothes: including a tunic, leggings, and a cloak that clasped at the neck. My favorite book took up most of the space in my pack, even if it was only as wide as my outstretched hand. And at the top of everything was a fine tooth comb made of bone, courtesy of my mother. Everything else I needed was either on my back, or could be found on the road.

When I left the temple's front doors, I looked up to see Marathin's legs dangling from the roof. He leapt down, landing squarely on his feet with a practiced grace. "Are you ready?" he asked, smiling over his shoulder.

"No." I said.

He laughed, and pulled me forward by my sleeve, "Then let's walk fast, my friend."

When they say the first few miles are the hardest, you best believe them. Whether it means that your body hurts more, or your heart is unusually heavy, I am not sure. From experience, I guess at both. Lucky for me, though, Marathin chatted pleasantly as we scrambled down the large rocks, and steep hills. I knew these woods like the back of my hand. No sound, no smell, no sight was new to me. As we went farther, the feeling was the same, but I knew we were somewhere I had never been before.

It was then I realized how isolated the temple really was. It was even higher ___up_ in the mountain then I had thought. Everything looks smaller when you look down—and everything bigger when you look up. Everything seemed farther, different. Or perhaps my thoughts were just distorted by the monstrous amount of cliffs that needed jumping over. The craggy mountains of the east are not meant for leisurely hikes.

"Marathin?" I called, "How did you get up here?"

He smiled, and shuffled up a boulder before replying, "The same way you did, my friend. Do you not remember?"

I frowned, and shook my head. "My mother said she brought me here when I was barely a year old."

He nodded thoughtfully from his perch atop the rock. With a sigh, he sat down, and patted the space beside him. "So, how far have you ever been from home before?" he asked, "Have you been to the town farther down?"

I shook my head. He blinked in surprise. "Truly?" he asked. I nodded with annoyance. I did not care if he meant no harm by the questions. I felt embarrassed for my lack of knowledge.

"Never before?" he asked once more. This time I glared at him, and as I expected, I did not get a serious response.

He chuckled, eyes twinkling, and patted my head. "I see. No wonder you sat through my boring stories. You had nothing interesting to compare it to!"

I wanted to tell him that, no, his stories were not boring, and that, yes, I did have something to compare it to. But I did not because half of what I would say would be a lie. He was left wondering if I didn't say anything to spare his feeling, or if I didn't say anything because I was who I was.

It took us three whole days to make it down and around the mountain. Wedged in a valley's spine nestled a small town, covered beneath a canopy of trees. I could barely make it out between the plethora of leaves and branches, even in the hazy afternoon sun. We made it there just before sunset.

I am usually a very cool, unfazed person. I do not let trivial things bother me, and even, sometimes, important things as well. But I was young, and this experience was so new that I think I can be forgiven. Even if it was not a large place by average standards, by my own, it might as well have been the greatest city in the world. I latched onto Marathin's sleeve as soon as I stepped into the boundaries, and did not let go for a long, long time.

It was some kind of holiday. A few dozen booths sat side by side, decorated with pine boughs and holly wreaths. Women and men stood among each other, their faces shining in the milky glow of the slowly setting sun, as a few children (_real_ children that were _not_ me) tripped and laughed as they threaded through the crowds. There was a man spilling sand onto the earth, and another raking it into the shape of a circle. A ring of young men and woman sat in the grass, looking on with eager eyes. There was to be dancing that night.

Thankfully Marathin did not say anything on my discomfort. Oh, he may have laughed, or given me a funny look, but he knew better then to comment so early on. He made his way through the crowds just as easily as he climbed trees, or balanced on logs. I wondered how long it would take for me to master both wild _and_ city life. Remembering Marathin and his stories, I knew I needed some time. And maybe an adventure or two as well.

By the time the sun had gone down, Marathin had bought us what we needed for the trek to the next village, as well as securing us a place to sleep for the night. As I eased myself into the hay of the shed, I reflected on my new life. How long would we be traveling? How far away was Arlathen? Once I was there, what would I do? Would I be so used to traveling, I would leave as soon as I came? Perhaps even alone? Or would I cling to my friend for awhile longer?

It was at that time, Marathin opened the heavy woven flap that separated our stall from the stock. I caught a glimpse of a white Halla chewing on grass shoots, before it swung back into place. He nestled in across from me, and tossed me a torn off corner of salted flat bread. I nibbled slowly, holding out my hand beneath the food to catch any stray salt rocks.

Marathin began to talk, as usual. "There are glowing globes of light hanging from the tree boughs," he said, his voice a dreamy haze, "And a mage has made each one twinkle a different color. It is very beautiful, my friend. You would love to see it. Will you not go outside?"

I looked towards him. I did not know if it was so much that he wanted me to go, or if _he_ wanted to, and would feel guilty if he left me. Knowing my good friend as I do now, I am sure it was both.

"I do not think so." I replied, "I am tired."

He raised an eyebrow, silently reproaching me. My stomach knotted uncomfortably, and the only words I could say were "No, thank you."

He smiled ruefully, and stood up. "Well, aren't you the adventurous one. "He snorted, "Some fun you are…. Can't escape your roots they say!"

And then he opened the flap once more, glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and let it swing behind him. I was left, staring ahead. I was confused, sad, angry, and above all those, ashamed. Why was I here if I wouldn't even enjoy myself? I was a disappointment to Marathin. Mamae would be angry at me for wasting this opportunity.

But I lied. There was one emotion that was even more important than shame. Pride. I had just said I wouldn't go. How he would tease me if I left anyways! Changed your mind, my friend? He would say. I think you've gone against your word! How could I ever trust you again, my friend? And then he would laugh, and ruffle my hair, and I would be left with nothing but a glare and frayed temper.

I shouldn't go. I couldn't go. I _wouldn't_ go.

A Halla stuck it and its horns through the flap, and stared at me with large, glittering eyes. We looked at each other for a moment, before it turned its head and began to eat the straw under my feet. It guffawed, sneezed, and nibbled on the blunt heel of my boot with curiosity.

I told myself over and over in my head that I _refused_ to go. I was still repeating that as I ducked out of the stall, and jogged out of the shed.


End file.
